


On Your Knees

by Johniarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blowjobs, Gore, Gunplay, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5611687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim just looks so good with his tongue against the barrel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChloeWinchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/gifts).



> So I've been working on this all day and I'm finally happy with it. Jim looked TOO FUCKING GOOD in the mindpalace and I had to add John in there. God. GOD. I'm somehow gayer after watching Andrew lick the barrel of that pistol. Trigger warning for the last few sentences, I am garbage.

            “Professor Moriarty, get on your knees.”

            He hadn’t expected John to be home. Sherlock, oh, yes, but not the cute little army doctor. The pistol in his hand remained fixed on James as he sank to the carpet, grinning up at John.

            “Anything for you, Doctor Watson.”

            John took a step closer, his gun still trained on the man before him. There was power in having James Moriarty kneeling on the carpet, the fire flickering off his pale skin. Something beautiful.

            Another step, less distance… and then James sprung.

            He wrenched the gun from John’s hand and stared at it a moment, turning it over in his grasp with intent burning in his dark eyes.

            “Pretty, pretty little thing… Holding a pistol is holding all the _power_. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor Watson?”

            Laughing, Moriarty squinted into the barrel. John started to reach for him, but with one quick movement he found the gun pressed against his stomach.

            “Now now, Johnny Boy,” Moriarty whispered. “Behave, or dear Mrs. Hudson will have a mess to clean up. Yours… and mine.”

            He turned the gun back to himself, smiling at it a moment before opening his mouth and sliding it between his lips. John knew he’d always had a deathwish, but here? In the flat? Was this really the place James Moriarty wanted to end his life?

            “… Smells _manly_ ,” Jim muttered around the barrel. “Smells like _you._ ”

            “The gun?”

            “Flat.”

            “I… thank you? I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that, professor.”

            His eyes never left John’s as he sucked on the barrel, cheeks hollowing as it slid slowly from his lips. James Moriarty knew all about pressure points, and John Watson’s closely-guarded sexuality was certainly _his._ The way his ears flushed certainly drove the point home. James loosed a wet moan and pulled the pistol free, saliva dripping toward the handle.

            “You’re welcome, Doctor Watson,” he whispered.

            “Moriarty –“

            Before John could finish speaking, James slipped his tongue out and dragged it slowly across the barrel. Cold steel clashed with the warm pink of his mouth, and John found himself staring hungrily. How soft James’ lips must be. How warm his mouth would feel…

            “Doctor Watson, you seem to be enjoying yourself. How scandalous.”

            James lowered the gun again, smirking up at the dumbstruck John.

            “I know all your secrets,” he whispered. “Your bloodlust. The hunger you feel but won’t give in to – all alone in the darkness, while that _wife_ of yours is off saving queen and country. The things you whisper. The things you dream. I know what you need, Doctor Watson.”

            “You know nothing about me, Professor Moriarty,” John growled. “Whatever information you think you have on me, I can assure you –“

            “You want to fuck my mouth,” James interrupted. “You’ve thought about it before, John, the very first time we met. Your eyes keep wandering down to my lips, and oh, there’s the matter of your very clear erection…”

            John cleared his throat, clearly torn. James was right; he longed for him, absolutely ached at the thought of submitting to him, but he knew he couldn’t act upon his urges.

            However, in the privacy of Sherlock’s flat, they were safe. They were shielded from the prying eyes of the world that spun outside the frosted panes of glass. With James on his knees, lips playing with the barrel of the pistol, John felt as if he could give in.

            For once, he could act on his dark desires.

            “All right,” he said quietly. “Suppose you were correct. If, by some chance, what you think you know of me is true. What use would that be for you?”

            “Why Johnny!” Jim gasped. “I want to gag on your prick. _That’s_ what I’d get out of it. You would submit to me, and I would…”

            Instead of finishing Jim ran his tongue up the gun again.

            “Y-yes, yes, all right. I want that. Profe – _James_. Please.”

            “Please what, John?”

            “… Please, will you fix it for me?”

            “Good boy.”

            James’ skillful fingers unbuttoned John’s trousers and tugged them down. With those soft, strong legs bared to air, he let his lips slowly slide along them. John tasted clean, his skin tinged with the barest hint of his soap and James had him _exactly_ where he wanted him.

            As John breathed soft curses James cupped his balls, enjoying the way John’s skin shifted and loosened from the warm caress. This was the greatest gift he could have received; John Watson as putty in his hands, barely able to keep himself standing from the barest sexual touch.

            “You’ve been deprived… what a shame,” James chuckled, his breath ghosting along John’s cock. “A prick as pretty of yours deserves attention. How I’d worship it, if I was your bride.”

            He could barely form a sentence. Those silken lips pressed faintly against his shaft, coaxing a soft growl from John’s throat. It wasn’t enough; he needed _more._

“James, please…”

            Smiling, James guided the pistol back into John’s hand.

            “Point this at my temple.”

            For the briefest of moments John hesitated. If his finger twitched, Jim would die. The bullet would tear through his brain in an instant.

            “Do what Daddy says, John.”

            “I – y-yes, alright, Daddy.”

            John pressed the barrel to Jim’s temple, his hands still and steady as James swallowed him inch by precious inch. He moaned his name, a shiver working its way along his spine. James’ mouth was wet and warm, the perfect sheath as he thrust a little deeper. He couldn’t look away; James’ eyes were captivating, dark pits that seemed to tug on his very soul.

            Each slow, teasing wipe of his wide tongue drove John mad. James knew exactly what he was doing. He smirked around John’s cock as he watched him force himself upright. Legs shaking, sweat beading on his forehead, John wasn’t sure he _could_ stay standing. James pressed against the barrel and pushed himself down lower, sucking surely. He seemed to enjoy the feel of the steel digging into his skin – if John’s grip went slack, he growled, signaling his displeasure.

            He clicked the hammer back, experimenting with James’ reactions. James winked up at him and pulled back, bobbing quicker.

            “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop,” John moaned, thrusting into his throat. He’d finish soon at that rate; between James’ skill and his own unfulfilled needs, John could barely control myself.

            Encouraged by John’s sounds Jim worked faster, sliding his hands up to cup John’s arse. So fit, even after his time outside the armed forces… He couldn’t wait to bend him over his plush armchair and fuck him until he screamed…

            Without warning John pulsed across his tongue, gasping his name as he came. James’ lips slid from his cock, dripping just the barest trace of come as he grinned up at John.

            “Tell Daddy thank you, John.”

            “Thank you, Daddy,” John breathed. He carded his fingers through James’ hair, pulling slightly. Seeing the great criminal on his knees, lips swollen and pink, thrilled him. For a brief moment he felt like he had control.

            Until his fingers touches something wet and soft.

            “What – “

            Blood. His fingers came back streaked with blood and the slightest sliver of bone.

            “Oh, no, don’t stop!” James whispered. “Haven’t you ever wanted to poke around in my brain, see what makes me _tick_?”

* * *

 

            John woke with a strangled scream. Gone were his tweeds and the soft carpet rug of 221B. Jim was nowhere in sight. Just John, laying in the darkness beside Mary.

            Jim Moriarty was dead.

            Still dead. And he was still grieving.


End file.
